Baby's Breath

At seven years old I stood no taller than your average Great Dane while weighing the equivalent of a Pomeranian. As small as I was, I wasn’t used to wearing large targets on my back attracting school bullies, so I used creativity to compensate for my size.
For example, one day a kid in my class, named Hunter, thought it was funny to rush me like a Green Bay Packer’s offensive lineman, sending me sailing into the abyss on picture day. The mud was so thick, I lost my right shoe trying to free myself. Needless to say, days later, somebody went into Hunter’s locker placing goose droppings in his peanut butter & jelly sandwich, or so I heard. He sure gave a new meaning to the phrase “potty- mouth.” Boy, was it a sight to see!
Unfortunately for me, my mother wasn’t too happy with the way the pictures turned out. However, in the end, my creativity paid off after I gave her a few handpicked flowers I came across walking home from school; I was off the hook.

Back then, I used to give her some of the most beautiful flowers I could get my hands on because she meant much more than homemade cards, gooey paste, glitter and scented markers that other kids used to win over their mother’s affection.
If I was lucky, I’d come across light pink roses; those were her favorite. Usually, though, she received marigolds hopping with vibrant yellows and oranges dancing with shades of red, or carnations reflecting the spectrum of the rainbow which she quickly repaid with an abundance of hugs and kisses.

Daily, I dressed her face with happiness even on the worst day of my life. Walking home from school, I entered my private sanctuary, the source of my mother’s joy, when I stumbled upon an array of pink, white, and red roses, the ultimate motherlode! With my backpack filled to the brim and my arms embracing an assortment of love, I was startled almost out of my shoes when a man resembling Bluto from Popeye began yelling. Sweating profusely, saturating a once blue set of tattered Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls, he rushed towards me; I immediately took off, almost faster than my little feet would take me, as fear trickled down my little legs. His proximity was so close I could nearly smell the Beech-nut on his breath as he pursued me, shovel in hand, using language a sailor would find foreign.

The chase lasted for an eternity. My legs ached, I was out of breath, but I wanted to make my mother happier than she’s ever been, so I kept running. Luckily, making my way past this gigantic shiny stone structure, that big oaf tripped over one of the many rocks that had writing on it. Taking advantage of his misfortune I hid in a little stone house. While I was waiting, I could hear my heart beating so bad; in fact, I thought that lunatic was able to hear it, too. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Where ya at, ya lil’ punk?!” He howled in a raspy pirate’s voice. “When I find ya, I’ma eat ya grubby lil’ fingers fer takin’ stuff don’t b’long to ya.”
I couldn’t allow him to eat my fingers; how would I do my homework? So, once again still clutching my prize, I bolted out of that stone hut faster than a bullet.
“Ah ha!” hooted the man. “Dontcha run. It’s gonna be worse fer ya.”
I didn’t care. With the threat of my fingers to be his main course, I moved faster than ever, so fast, I didn’t see the policeman before running into him, falling to the ground as roses rained down upon us.

“A policeman. Thank God,” I thought.
“You all right son?” The officer inquired soothingly in a paternal tone. “You’ve got to be more…” “Off-sir! Off-sir!” screeched the nut who was chasing me, sounding more and more like a banshee as he grew closer. “Air-est dis snot-nose lil’ punk! He’s stolen dem flowers he gots on ‘em, and some he don’ cuz he drop ‘em runnin’ from da crime scene. I tries to get ‘em back and was knocked about! I is lucky to be in one piece.” “Is this true, young man?” Asked the officer more sternly as he towered over me like a gargoyle. Beginning to sob uncontrollably, I convulsed, “H…h…he said he wa…wa…was going to eat my fing…g…g…gers.”
Pacified, I was ordered to hand all the flowers over to Mr. Thomson, for that was the name he gave the officer. Doing as I was told, I zipped up my backpack, and was shepherded into the back of the police car like a common criminal. After telling the policeman where I lived, I was taken home to my mother, at which point Officer Martinez, as he pronounced his name, began relaying the details of the incident to my mother as told by fat and ugly Mr. Thompson.
Never seeing so much sadness in her eyes before made me equally sad despite not knowing I was prohibited from picking those flowers.

After the policeman finally left, to make my mom feel better, I unzipped my backpack and presented to her a light pink rose, cradled loosely by baby’s breath that I held back from Mr. Thompson. In response, clasping both hands over her mouth, and giggling softly through tears, she gave me the biggest hug and kiss she’d ever given me, making me promise to never do that again. I promised. Since that fateful afternoon, I’ve never stepped foot into another cemetery.